


Coat of a Single Colour

by TheosOxonian



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-23 00:34:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheosOxonian/pseuds/TheosOxonian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short serenade to a man and his coat!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coat of a Single Colour

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a friend who finds DS Hathaway and his coat _interesting_. A bit of idle silliness and probably my last posting for a while - work and the longer fics are about to engulf me.

He noticed the coat first time James wore it. How could he not. The damn thing draws the eye, draws both eyes, calls on you to linger and laze across its lines. Draws his hands too, makes him itch to touch. It fits flawlessly, shaped to his figure; the slope of his shoulders and the curl of his waist, the hills and hollows of his spine. He gives in all too frequently, hand in the small of his back, guiding, pushing, pressing, fingers grazing the tantalising curve hidden away beneath the final flairs of fabric.

He likes the coat. It’s a mirror of the man; buttoned down, stiff and formal, like the bland, blank façade he presents to the world. Only Robbie knows the man beneath the coat. Knows that if you stand back and observe, take time to let the layers unravel, then there’s a whole palate of light and shade beneath. Colours and tones and depths that James reveals carefully, sparsely, selectively. 

He wants to burrow into its depths. Wants to take the buttons, one by one, top to toe, ease back the fabric and fall into the warmth within, press his palms against the smooth solidity of his lightly muscled torso. Wants to keep going, keep discovering; loose the tie, release the collar, press close and breathe him in. Open mouthed kisses to the hints of skin, teasing them both as he runs palms across his back, the slide of soft cotton and the smell of sandalwood.

The damn coat’s going to break him one day. Some late evening when he’s weary and wilted, and when reason and remembrance have faded with the day. There’s pleasure in anticipation, something poignant, sharp and clear. So for now he’s content to let his skin sing with the wish and the wait, to watch the slink of his body as he leans against the wall of the pub, shoulder to stone, smoke wreath cradling his pale face. James rights himself, stands tall and tight, Port Meadow beyond him, houses and heath slipping into the western horizon. And for a long, aching moment there’s nothing in the world but shape and shadow and an hourglass silhouette against a dying winter sun.


End file.
